


Paint

by Himederes (orphan_account)



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Erik is an overdramatic dork, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 20:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11813712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Himederes
Summary: Erik always liked to think of himself as artistically gifted, but it's impossible to be good at everything. Luckily, Christine never seemed to care much for perfection.





	Paint

Thin, bony fingers held a well worn paintbrush and swiped the soft bristles through a dollop of brown. Erik had always enjoyed painting. Somehow, it gave a sort of calming effect. Letting go and feeling the glide of the brush against the wet of the paint, watching as a scene came to life before his eyes.   
  
He admitted, reluctantly, that the skill was not his best, even if he claimed to be a lover of all arts. No, painting was not done to capture the essence of something so precisely. It was like a memory, like something you recognize but can’t make out the exact details of.   
  
Erik did not concern himself with exactness. There were plenty of artists like that in Paris, their easels stained with the remnants of dried oils as they planted themselves in the center of any park or venue, spending hours measuring with their fingers and making marks with their brush before even starting the underpainting.   
  
It would certainly be difficult, when one wears a mask, to sit stationary in one spot undisturbed, even if going about something as respectable as the arts. The curiosity of man could not be sated by a glance.  
  
Erik lowered his brush, chuckling lowly to himself as he turned to face a pair of blue eyes he had felt on him for some time now. Yes, this was proof of that curiosity. Erik felt himself smile under the mask as he caught sight of his dearest Christine. She was leaned forward over his chair, propping herself up by her elbows.  
  
“No! Don’t let me distract you!” She pouted.  
  
A laugh issued from his throat “Ma chère, it’s incredibly difficult when I’m being stared at like this.”  
  
Christine huffed as she made her way to her husband’s side, resting a hand to his shoulder. “I can’t help it. It’s a rare treat you get out the paint kit. Where are you taking us this time? The cities of India? The markets of Moscow? The sands of Persia?”  
  
“Rome, actually. Well, a little ways outside the city. I remember a hill overlooking a field from my travels, though I’m afraid there’s not much for you to see of it now. It’s just an underpainting.”  
  
Christine placed her hand on his and he found himself placing the brush into a jar of turpentine. “I’d love to travel with you one day, you know? See maybe just half of the places you’ve seen.”  
  
Erik felt her hands reach behind his head to try at the strings of his mask. They’d been making slow but sure progress with it over the past year. Though Erik still wore it both inside and out, he no longer made an effort to stop Christine when she wanted it off, and he felt himself lean into her hand as she cupped his now bare jaw in her hand, thumb running across a malformed cheek. He turned his head to kiss her palm, letting out a contented sigh.   
  
“I’m not as young as I was then, love. I can still travel through painting and a good book. That’s enough for me.”   
  
Christine quirked a brow and placed his mask on the table, resting her hands on her hips. “You aren’t that old. I’m sure a vacation would do you good sometime.”  
  
Erik paused for a short moment, his head tilting up to look at his beautiful wife, before something flashed in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair dramatically, a groan issuing from his throat as he slunk down in his seat.  
  
“Oh my dear Christine, if I go out I’ll turn to dust.”  
  
“Erik-”   
  
“My poor old joints! I’ll collapse. Oh I don’t think I’ll last!”  
  
She gave a laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”   
  
Erik rose back up slowly, gripping the armrests of the chair for leverage, a goofy triumphant smile on his thin lips. “If it makes my angel laugh…”  
  
Christine shook her head and gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Can I please keep watching?”  
  
Erik stood from his chair, pushing it out from the table. “My dear, I’m afraid that's just not possible." A sly smirk crossed his face. "It would seem you’ve thoroughly distracted your Erik.”  
  
Christine stuck out her lower lip in a pout only to feel his hand tilt her chin up to meet him in a kiss. She moved her hands to the front of his shirt, pulling him in closer, to which he gladly obliged, before breaking apart with a kiss to her forehead.   
  
“Let me clean off the brushes.”  
  
Christine was about to open her mouth in protest before Erik interrupted.   
  
“Then I’ll light the fireplace. We can sit and I can tell you of Rome there.” Christine, calmed by the promise of a good fireside snuggle, nodded contentedly.   
  
“I’ll make us some tea while I wait.” Erik watched her disappear through the doorway and felt a rise in his heart. No, he never was good at painting. He never concerned himself with exactness, and there never had been one to share the memories he could capture with.   
  
But it would seem he now had someone to share those memories with.   
  
And so he would learn.


End file.
